Ramses, Volume V Page 5

  While he had not been trained as a stonemason or sculptor, Kha instinctively communed with the mineral world. He felt the latent energy coursing through the veins of stone.

  “What are you looking for, my son?”

  Emerging in the daybreak that conquered the shadows, laying claim to its desert empire, Ramses contemplated Kha.

  The king’s elder son stopped breathing. Kha knew full well that Nefertari had sacrificed her life to save him from an evil sorcerer’s black magic, and he sometimes wondered whether Ramses might secretly resent him for it.

  “You’re wrong, Kha. In no way do I blame you.”

  “You’ve been reading my mind!”

  “Didn’t you want to see me?”

  “I thought you were in Thebes, and here you are at the Red Mountain.”

  “A grave danger is threatening Egypt. I have to deal with it. Meditating in this holy place is indispensable.”

  “Aren’t we at peace with the Hittites?”

  “The peace may prove to be no more than a truce.”

  “You’ll steer clear of war or win if one comes along. No matter what happens, you’ll be able to keep Egypt safe from harm.”

  “Don’t you want to help me?”

  “I’m useless when it comes to politics. And you’ll reign for years to come, if you respect the ancestral rites. In fact, that need was what I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “You must undertake immediate preparations for your next sed-feast.”

  “So soon after the first one?”

  “I’ve concluded from my research that it must be celebrated at three-year intervals.”

  “Do whatever is necessary.”

  “You could give me no greater joy, Father. No divinity will be absent from your next sed-feast. Joy will spread throughout the Two Lands; the goddess Mut will stud the heavens with malachite and turquoise.”

  “You must have another project in mind as well, Kha. What temple will get these blocks of quartzite you’re prospecting here?”

  “For several years I’ve been studying our illustrious past. Among the earliest rites was the cult of a bull called Apis, whose speed represented the king’s ability to break through the barriers of space. We would do well to continue honoring this extraordinary animal, giving him a tomb in keeping with his importance. And it’s not the only old monument that needs restoration. Even certain pyramids have been damaged by time or defaced by the Hyksos invaders. Will you grant me the manpower to complete the work?”

  “Choose the master builder and stoneworkers yourself.”

  Kha’s stern face lit up.

  “This place is strange,” remarked Ramses. “The rebels’ blood has soaked into the stone. Here, the eternal combat between the forces of light and darkness has left deep traces. The Red Mountain is a place of power where one had best tread carefully. You haven’t come here by chance, Kha. What treasure are you seeking?”

  The king’s elder son sat down on a dun-colored boulder.

  “The Book of Thoth. The book containing the secret of the hieroglyphs. It’s somewhere in the necropolis of Saqqara. I mean to find it, even if the quest takes years.”

  At fifty-four, Dame Tanit was a comely Phoenician whose ample curves attracted admiring glances from much younger men. Her late husband had been a rich trader, a friend of the Syrian merchant Raia’s, and had left her a considerable fortune that she now spent lavishly, throwing banquet after banquet in her plush Pi-Ramses villa.

  The shapely Phoenician little mourned the mate she had found vulgar and boring. After a few weeks of feigned sadness, she had found consolation in the arms of a magnificent Nubian with outstanding attributes, yet she soon tired of him. Like all her previous lovers, he had trouble keeping up with her, manly as he was. And a woman as hungry for pleasure as Tanit could never forgive this deplorable lack of endurance.

  Tanit could have returned to Phoenicia, but she had grown fond of Egypt. Thanks to Ramses’ authority and influence, the land of the pharaohs was heaven on earth. Nowhere else was a woman so free to live as she saw fit.

  As evening fell, Dame Tanit’s guests arrived—wealthy Egyptian business associates, high government officials fascinated by her charm, fellow countrymen who had designs on her fortune, not to mention the new faces she loved to discover. What could be more exciting than a man’s frankly appreciative gaze? Tanit knew how to lead men on and when to back away, constantly keeping them off balance. No matter what happened, she was always in control of the situation. Anyone who tried to play the dominant male had no chance at all with her.

  As usual, the food would be luscious (particularly the rabbit braised in beer, served with eggplant caviar) and the wines exceptional. Thanks to her palace connections, Tanit had even acquired a few jars of red Pi-Ramses wine dating from Year Twenty-one of Ramses’ reign, when the peace treaty with the Hittites was signed. And as usual, the Phoenician would size up the best-looking men, with her sure eye for future conquests.

  “How have you been, my dear lady?”

  “Raia! So glad to see you again. I’m doing wonderfully, thank you.”

  “If I weren’t afraid you’d accuse me of flattery, I’d tell you that you’re lovelier than ever.”

  “The climate agrees with me. And then the pain of losing my husband is just beginning to fade.”

  “Fortunately, that’s the law of nature. A woman like you isn’t meant to be alone.”

  “Men are liars and brutes,” she said teasingly. “I should stay away from them.”

  “You’re wise to use caution, but I’m convinced that fate will grant you another chance at happiness.”

  “And how is business, Raia?”

  “Demanding as ever. Making luxury foodstuffs requires highly skilled workers who demand top wages. The imported vases that are so popular with my select Egyptian clientele keep me on the road a great deal. Serious craftsmen don’t sell their wares cheaply. As my reputation rests on quality, I have to keep reinvesting in my business; that’s why I’ll never be rich.”

  “You’re a lucky man. You seem to have landed on your feet.”

  “I was falsely accused of being a Hittite sympathizer. It’s true that I had dealings with Hatti, but they were never political. The advent of peace set me back in good standing. Renewed ties with our foreign trading partners are even encouraged now. I’d say that peace is Ramses’ greatest accomplishment. Don’t you agree?”

  “Pharaoh is so attractive. Too bad he’s out of my league.”

  The peace treaty, the mutual assistance agreement signed by Ramses and Hattusili, the Hittite empire’s loss of its conquering spirit, Egypt triumphant . . . Raia could no longer bear to think of the cowardice and defections that had led to this wretched state of affairs. All his adult life he had fought to see the Anatolian army’s supremacy extend throughout the Near East. He wasn’t about to give up now.

  “May I introduce a friend to you?” he asked Tanit, who was instantly intrigued.

  “Who is it?”

  “A Hittite prince who’s new to Pi-Ramses. He’s heard a lot about you, but the social life in Egypt intimidates him. I practically had to drag him here tonight.”

  “Point him out to me.”

  “He’s standing over there, near the oleanders.”

  A lamp atop a pillar illuminated Uri-Teshoop, standing apart from the clusters of animated guests. The flickering light revealed a hard face, long thick hair, a strong torso covered with reddish fleece, and the sturdy muscular build of a warrior.

  Tanit was too moved to speak. She had never before seen a male animal exuding such intense sensuality. The banquet ceased to exist. A single thought possessed her: getting this stallion into bed.

  NINE

  Ramses was invited to observe his younger son, Merenptah, training with Serramanna. Outfitted in a hinged breastplate, a helmet with flaring horns and a bronze disk on top, plus a round shield, the Sard was slamming his sword into the princ
e’s rectangular shield, forcing the younger man to give ground. Pharaoh had asked his guard captain not to go easy on his son; if Merenptah wanted to prove his valor in combat, he could find no stauncher opponent.

  At twenty-seven, the prince, whose name meant “Beloved of the God Ptah,” was a fine-looking athlete, brave, alert, and blessed with excellent reflexes. Although the Sardinian giant was past fifty, he had lost none of his strength or fighting prowess. Simply resisting him was an exploit.

  Merenptah retreated, attacked again, parried blows, worked his way to one side, then the other. Little by little, he was wearing Serramanna down.

  Abruptly, the giant stopped dead, throwing his long sword with its triangular blade to the ground, along with his shield.

  “Enough skirmishing. We’ll fight hand to hand now.”

  Merenptah hesitated for a moment, then followed suit. Ramses was reliving his initial unarmed confrontation with the Sardinian pirate on the shore of the Mediterranean.

  The king’s son was unprepared when Serramanna rushed headlong at him. Military school had never taught Merenptah to fight like a wild beast. Flat on his back on the dusty barracks floor, he felt the old pirate’s crushing weight on his chest.

  “Class dismissed,” declared Ramses.

  The two men got up. Merenptah was furious.

  “He tricked me!”

  “That’s what the enemy always does, my son.”

  “I want to keep fighting.”

  “No need. I saw what I wanted to see. Now that you’ve been given this valuable lesson, I’m naming you as commander of the Egyptian army.”

  Serramanna nodded his approval.

  “Within a month,” Ramses continued, “I want you to submit a complete and detailed report on the state of our troops and their armament.”

  As Merenptah caught his breath, Ramses rode off in the chariot that he still drove himself. To whom should he entrust the fate of Egypt: the scholarly Kha or the fiery Merenptah? If their strengths were united in one single person, the choice would have been easy. And Nefertari was no longer there to advise him. As for his royal sons, all of them were talented, yet none had as strong a personality as Iset the Fair’s two sons. And Meritamon, Nefertari’s daughter, had chosen the cloistered life in a distant temple.

  Ramses must not ignore the advice Ahmeni had given him that very morning: “Your Majesty must draw on the rites of regeneration to remain on the throne until your energy is totally exhausted. For Pharaoh, there has never been any other possible path, nor will there ever be one.”

  Raia left his warehouse, walked through the streets of craftsmen’s shops nearby, passed in front of the palace, and headed for the broad avenue leading to Pi-Ramses’ main temples. Lined with shade trees, this street was the image of Ramses’ capital city, both majestic and livable.

  The merchant passed the temple of Amon on his left and the temple of Ra on his right. At what he hoped was a leisurely pace, he continued toward the temple of Ptah, which he skirted, for anchored in the outer wall were tablets engraved with ears and eyes. Ptah, it was said, heard every secret and saw the most hidden intentions.

  “Superstition,” scoffed Raia, though he felt uneasy; he rounded the corner where a niche held a statuette of the goddess Ma’at, allowing the people to contemplate the central mystery of pharaonic civilization, the immutable law, conceived beyond the bounds of time and space.

  Raia arrived at the craftsmen’s entrance to the temple complex; the guard recognized him. They exchanged a few meaningless remarks about the weather; the merchant complained about how stingy some of his customers could be. Then he was admitted to the area reserved for goldsmiths. As an expert on precious vases, Raia knew a good number of the workmen, and made sure to ask after one man’s family, another’s health.

  “I know you want to pry our secrets out of us,” muttered an old metal worker who was stacking ingots on a cart.

  “I’ve given up on that,” confessed Raia. “Watching you work is enough to make me happy.”

  “You haven’t come here for pleasure, though.”

  “I wouldn’t mind getting hold of one or two nice pieces.”

  “To sell them for three times as much!”

  “That’s business, my friend.”

  The old craftsman turned his back on Raia. The Syrian was used to such rebuffs. Discreet, almost invisible, he observed the apprentices carting ingots to journeymen, who weighed the metal under supervision by specially trained scribes. The gold was then deposited in a sealed vase and fired; a blowtorch fanned the flames. The blowers often kept their cheeks puffed out so as not to lose the rhythm. Other workers poured the molten metal into receptacles in a variety of shapes, handing them over to the goldsmiths. These master technicians worked at a forge, their stone hammers fashioning necklaces, bracelets, vases, statues, and ornamental doors for temples. Trade secrets passed from master to disciple though long years of training.

  “Magnificent,” said Raia to a goldsmith who had just finished a pectoral.

  “It’s for the statue of a god,” explained the craftsman.

  The merchant lowered his voice. “Can we talk?”

  “It’s noisy enough in here. No one will hear us.”

  “Your two sons both want to marry, I hear.”

  “Could be.”

  “I’d like to help them set up housekeeping.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Just get me some information.”

  “Don’t count on me to sell you our trade secrets.”

  “I’m asking nothing of the sort!”

  “Then what do you want to know?”

  “Since I’ve been so successful, I’d like to see my countrymen feel more settled in Egypt. Haven’t you hired a Syrian or two to work here?”

  “Yes, there’s one in the shop.”

  “Is he satisfied with his lot?”

  “More or less.”

  “If you agree to give me his name, I’ll speak to him.”

  “Is that all you want, Raia?”

  “I’m getting older, I have no children, and I’m a man of means. I’d like to find someone I can sponsor.”

  “Egypt has taught you to be less selfish . . . that’s a good sign. It will be in your favor when your soul is judged. Your Syrian is over there with the blowers. The big one with the ears that stick out.”

  “I hope that your sons enjoy my wedding gifts.”

  Raia waited until the afternoon break to approach his fellow Syrian. His two previous attempts, with a carpenter and a mason quite content with their situation, had met with total failure. This was exactly the opposite.

  The Syrian blower, a onetime prisoner of war taken near Kadesh, refused to admit Hittite defeat and hoped the hostilities would soon resume. Bitter, resentful, and itching for revenge, he was exactly the type of man Uri-Teshoop and Raia needed. Even better, the metal worker had friends who shared his views.

  Raia had no trouble convincing the younger man to work for him and join a resistance group with the express mission of attacking Egypt’s vital interests.

  Uri-Teshoop bit his new lover on the neck and rammed himself into her. Tanit sighed with satisfaction. At last she was experiencing raw passion.

  “Again,” she begged.

  The Hittite took unbridled pleasure in the comely Phoenician’s womanly body. In the fortresses of his home country, he had learned to give the opposite sex what they deserved.

  Momentarily, Tanit felt a pang of fright. For the first time, she was no longer in control of the situation. She had never encountered a man so rough, so wonderfully inexhaustible. Despite the warning signal, she knew she would never find another like him, able to fulfill her wildest fantasies.

  Deep in the night, she finally begged him to stop.

  “Already?”

  “You’re a monster!”

  “No, I’m a man. I guess you’ve only had boys before me.”

  She clung to his damp, hairy chest. “You’re wonderful. I
wish dawn would never come.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “But you’ll have to leave! We’ll meet again tomorrow night.”

  “I’m staying.”

  “Do you know what that means, in Egypt?”

  “When a man and a woman live together publicly, it’s considered a marriage. So now we’re married, you and I.”

  She drew away in shock.

  “I do want to see you again, but . . .”

  Uri-Teshoop shoved her onto her back and straddled her.

  “You’re going to obey me, woman. I’m the son of the last Emperor of Hatti and the legitimate heir to the throne. You’re nothing but a Phoenician harlot who’ll give me pleasure and satisfy all my needs. I don’t suppose you have any idea what an honor it is, me taking you as my wife?”

  Tanit tried to protest, but Uri-Teshoop once again entered her forcefully; once again her head whirled.

  “If you betray me,” the Hittite prince said hoarsely, “you’re dead.”

  TEN

  From a rush basket, Setau pulled a triangular loaf of bread, a bowl of oat gruel, dried fish, a braised pigeon, a roast quail, two kidneys simmered in wine, a steak on a bed of fried onions, figs, and a pot of herbed cheese. He carefully placed the dishes one by one on Ahmeni’s desk, forcing him to set aside the scrolls he was consulting.

  “What is all this?”

  “Are you blind? A decent meal, that’s what it is. It may even fill you up for an hour or two.”

  “I didn’t need—”

  “You certainly do need it. Your brain doesn’t work on an empty stomach.”

  Anger flared in the scribe’s pale eyes. “Are you insulting me?”

  “It’s the only way to get your attention.”

  “You’re not going to start in again on—”

  “Of course I am. I want more funds for Nubia and I can’t take the time to fill out fifty requests like the other provincial administrators do.”